


Ashes and Smoke

by Jupiters-Jeopardy (TheInterim_VectorChronos)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Do people create tags for their OCs by name??, Gen, How Do I Tag, will be updated - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-18 05:29:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20633855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheInterim_VectorChronos/pseuds/Jupiters-Jeopardy
Summary: I rose up from the ashes.Now, I don’t mean that in any type of poetic or flowery way, I mean that literally.





	Ashes and Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for giving my story a try. The ending notes are longer, but you don't read them before you read the story. 
> 
> This WILL be heavily updated in the next four days. I currently have a migraine--technically this isn't even finished, but I *NEED* to post this today, September 13, 2019. I am a stickler for dates.
> 
> Please use constrictive criticism; let me know if I misspelled anything or used the wrong word. (I caught one already, I meant 'sink' but typed 'skin'.)
> 
> Also, feel free to reach out me!  
First time posting, please bear with me in regards to formatting errors. (Oh goodness, where are my tabs? The new paragraphs? This is not how I want it looking, please forgive me.)
> 
> *EDIT 9/15/19: That is a lot better, I am more content with this. I believe this prologue/part one to be done.

I rose up from the ashes.

Now, I don’t mean that in any type of poetic or flowery way, I mean that literally. I woke up surrounded by the ashes of my family home. Parts of it were still on fire, filling the sky with dark clouds. It should have been the middle of the afternoon, maybe early evening, but it was so dark. I knew it was the smoke, but...  
My head hurt.

Carefully, I lifted a hand to feel around my face. The flesh over my ear was out of place, I could feel the edges of the wound. When I looked at my hand I couldn't tell if it was red or black. I knew it should be red, but everything was covered in soot. I was having trouble seeing too; briefly I saw eight fingers. That couldn't be good.

Over half of the structure had fallen inward, allowing me to see the second floor from the first floor hallway. The stairs from the foyer were simply not there. What was left of the wood was black and the metal banisters were twisted out of their original positions. They almost looked like a ladder, but I knew that wouldn't be safe to climb, even if I could get up. Not that there was anything to investigate upstairs. The second floor held three bedrooms and three and half baths. Class photos, family vacations, children’s finger-painting; all the decorations, all the memories that decorated those walls were _gone_.

I remembered one of the pictures, my foster brother had made it when he was six. I still don't know how he did it, but he glued cotton candy to construction paper. It stayed, until a strange butterfly--or moth, I never was sure what it was--ate it. He had been so distraught, Mama and I had tried gluing the sweet treat back on, but it kept disintegrating. Finally, we gave up and glued distressed cotton balls to the thing. We even airbrushed the color on them. It wasn't the same, but he appreciated our effort. I _**love**_ that beaming smile. He would never smile at that project again. Or the chalk silhouettes. I had made a family portrait out of crafting wire when he was five; Mama had loved it, was moved to tears and he had thought it was awesome to make something out of a single piece of wire. I'm sure the heat had destroyed it.

Nothing would have survived the blaze. So why did I?

The fireplace had fallen to the side, the hearth the only thing remaining in its original place. I could see into the formal dining room. The table that had always been given to the oldest child of the main family, with its sigils carved on the underside and legs, had been completely consumed by the flames. A few of the chairs still stood, but no longer the full set.  
The china cabinet that had been white when first purchased only to turn a subtle creme with age and use was blackened; the glass was broken and the hand painted dishes from my mother’s sixth removed great grandmother were either shattered or melted. Which was weird, until I remembered some were ceremonial bowls.

‘_This place isn’t warded anymore_,’ I thought. ‘_It’s not safe; I need to move_.’  
But how could I move? I ached. My body--my heart. Perhaps my very soul. I wasn’t sure there was a part of me that was without pain.  
The ash that was falling was cold and for some reason that unsettled me. I was sure that it shouldn’t bother me, but it did. And it bothered me that it bothered me. Maybe it wasn’t the ash. Maybe it was something else.  
I lay there watching the smoke climb higher into the sky. Just for a bit. I wasn’t thinking of anything--couldn’t think about what had happened here.  
It was too soon.

I couldn’t stay here. Not on this floor. Not in this house.  
It was time. Time to move.  
Rolling over was a challenge. It took more tries than I want to admit, but I made it from my back to my stomach. I ignored the wetness on my face, not caring to know if it was blood or tears. One hand in front of the other, use the elbows, knees, and feet; just like practice. What were you supposed to do if you had injuries in thos places though? Compensate? Push through the pain? I was able to drag myself towards what was left of the kitchen. That was the nearest door--or the nearest outside wall, judging by the damage. The top part of the barn yard door looked fused into the frame, but the bottom was still open. I was careful as I moved around the charred skull, watchful of the fangs, but I did not focus unnecessary attention to it.

The kitchen had been a cheery light lime yellow. It had been one of my most favorite places and where we spent a large portion of our time. Mama would cook and I would sit at the breakfast nook reading over books, doing my homework, and entertaining guests. There was always something on the stove.  
At least, there always had been. Now, it was black and melted. As was everything else here. My entire life, literally gone up in flames. Ashes and smoke.  
Hopefully the first aid kit under the sink was intact. I would need it before I began my little trip. Head, hand, ribs, thigh, and ankle; assessing these would take priority over the bleeding scraps.

I couldn’t ride the bike, the skin on my thigh was burned, maybe blistering, and I wouldn’t be able to handle the pain of pedaling. I wish we had a moped, I might have used that. It would make life a bit easier. The car wasn’t in the yard--not that I could smoothly drive the finicky thing. Walking it was then.  
I would walk to the storage unit, grab my go-bag, and go to the nearest safe house. I would follow the plan. The plan was put in place for a reason. It was important. If the situation ever got bad enough to enact the plan, it was very important that it be followed. To the letter. This is what I had been taught since I was little.  
That was all I had now.

I had to find John. I didn't know what happened to my mom, but he would. I knew he would know. He had to. Things like this, it was his entire life. He could help me figure out what happened, give me some direction. Help me find the thing that...  
It wouldn't be easy, John was a hard man to find. I hadn't seen him in nearly three years, when he helped me pack for college. It had been a while since I heard from him too. I wasn't sure if I still had a working number for him, but I had to try. There would be a burner cell in the go bag and a charging cable, but I hoped the phone was still alive. I wouldn't be staying long. I would find a pay phone or something.

I am Luiza Tamryn Jaeger-Winchester. I have knowledge of the arcane and occult. I can and will drag myself across the floor. I have no home. I have very little practical knowledge of what Hunting entails. I do not know where to begin, but here we go. All or nothing, and giving it my best. Time to find Dad.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this far! Please note that everything is subject to heavy updates. Migraines are the bane of my existence. First time posting on AO3, bear with the formatting please.
> 
> Firstly, Friday Sept 13, 1985 is Luiza's birthday. Today, Friday September 19, 2019, felt too important to pass up. I /had/ to post something for her. It was an incredible compulsion.  
(The next Friday Sept 13 is in 2024 and I did NOT want to wait that long.)  
Having a migraine and three children to deal with on a Friday kinda sucked; put a HUGE damper on my process. This was written in less than 30 hours, but most of that was eaten up by work, children, and a migraine. Hence why it will be heavily updated later.
> 
> Secondly, this story takes place sometime in or before 2004 or 2005, not 2019. Between some of the Supernatural books and the TV episodes; I just haven't pinned down the exact 'when' yet.
> 
> Thrice, I have been working on Luiza since 2007. She has gone through many changes, many ideas have been left on the cutting room floor.  
Yes, some of the canonical facts have changed her story. 'Jump the Shark' put a screeching halt to her development and it took me a year or so to pick her story back up.  
At some point her story will diverge from Supernatural cannon. It is not my intention to re-write the entire series. I will do my very best to avoid this. 
> 
> Four, I am NOT current with the series. I was very angry with the series as a whole near season eight and stopped watching when it aired. I have slowly caught up and re-watched the series many times--thank you Netflix. I am currently somewhere in season twelve. I won't say more to avoid spoilers, I just want people to know? 
> 
> Five, I don't particularly enjoy writing in first person, but I felt this part of Luiza's story needs to be told as such. 
> 
> Finally, thank you again for taking time out of your day to read my story!


End file.
